


Brought to Heel

by Pteropoda (SilentP)



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of terrorist attacks, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Non-Sexual Slavery, The Towers are not a nice place, Unintentional mistreatment, War, de-personalization, personal discovery, sentient beings treated like animals, until someone realizes what's going on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2018-08-09 06:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7791301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentP/pseuds/Pteropoda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Towers were built on a foundation of secrets as deep as they were tall. Even long after their fall, unpleasant truths continued to find to find their way to the surface to drive even more cracks into Mirage's shattered world. </p><p>Names have meaning, among Cybertronians. Hound chose his for a reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Questions with few Answers

**Author's Note:**

> It's the hound-Hound fic! Those of you who've looked through my tumblr may have seen me talking about this one before, it's been a concept I've held onto for quite a while now.
> 
> Namely: What if Hound's alt-mode was actually a dog? And then of course it completely spiraled out of control. 
> 
> It's not complete, but I've had sections of it written for a while that I want to share. There will be some timeline hopping, and no regular update schedule once I've put up the parts I've already written.

Ensconced in his chair at the head of the Officers’ meeting room, Optimus Prime sighed through his vents. “Thank you for your input,” he told the gathered group, setting aside his datapad. “This has been a very productive meeting. Ironhide, Red Alert, begin coordinating on the new anti-espionage system as soon as you can.”

The two mechs in question nodded and began to leave their chairs, but stopped as the Prime held up a hand. “With that decided, there is one last matter we must discuss,” he said. Around the table, mechs stiffened and rose from their weary slouches, glancing between one another at the unexpected extension to the meeting. “Ratchet, would you care to begin?”

The CMO nodded and picked up his own datapad, though rather than focusing down on it he glanced around at the other officers who were looking curiously between him and Optimus. “I’ll be frank. I’ve got a mech in my medbay right now who I didn’t know existed yesterday, because we thought he was a cyberhound.”

There was an instant of stunned silence before the room exploded into noise. Ironhide’s bellowed “WHAT?” echoed over Red Alert’s sudden deluge of questions. The only one who didn’t seem surprised by the news was Jazz.

“Let Ratchet explain,” Prowl said sharply, and the room fell silent under his stern optics. Ratchet nodded gratefully when Prowl turned back to him. “You mean Mirage’s tracking hound,” he said, to Ratchet’s sharp nod. “How certain are we that he is, in fact, a mech?”

Ratchet tapped at the screen of his datapad. “Yesterday, during emergency field surgery, Fixit noticed what appeared to be a t-cog among Scout— this mech’s internals.” Ratchet stumbled on the name, made a face, and continued. “I’ve been running scans ever since we got him stabilized. In addition to the presence of a transformation cog, the frame is properly proportioned for transformation. I’ve found a number of data ports accessible across the frame.” On the other side of the table, Prowl frowned, but Ratchet held up a hand to forestall his comment.

“Which is not proper evidence for the presence of a Cybertronian, I know. I’m getting to that. The processor contains the complex processing capabilities required for, among other things, language absorption and transformation. And his spark is a mech’s.” Ratchet tapped something on the datapad, pulling up a graph and holding it out to the rest of the officers. “This is the energy output of his spark. It’s a bit abnormal, but well within the realm of recognized spark fluctuations for advanced Cybertronian life. By every definition of a mech that we have, he is one.”

“And why did we never know about this before?” Prowl asked, contemplative.

Ratchet scowled. “I’m a doctor, not a vet,” he grumbled as he switched off the datapad. “I’ve never looked him over before. And there were blockers in place, suppressing field expression, transformation, and certain vocal functions.”

Red Alert straightened in alarm. “Blockers of that sort beyond temporary medical patches have been illegal for vorns! Where did they come from?” He refocused down on his datapad, typing madly. “Mirage has placed records indicating he has owned this… this mech for five vorns, long after these blockers were outlawed.”

“Fixit reported to me that Mirage was just as surprised as he was about finding that t-cog,” Ratchet interjected. “And he didn’t do anything to interfere with the investigation.”

“A logical reaction from someone who has been found out!” Red Alert retorted.

“Where _is_ he, anyhow?” Ironhide interrupted, frowning. “If this’s his doin’ it seems to me that he’d go invisible and take off on us the first chance he got.”

“I’ve got him in Ops custody,” Jazz said, “at his request.” He shifted in his chair, looking at the gathered officers. “He came to me, told me that all’a this was going on before I even knew about it. Says he’ll submit himself to any decision we make. That doesn’t sound like a mech who did those things and was covering for it. Seems to me that he’s been just as far in the dark as we are.”

“A guilty conscience,” Red Alert muttered, but subsided under Jazz’s fierce look.

“His testimony will be taken into account for our decision,” Prowl said, doors swept high. “However, Mirage and Scout have been with us for quite some time now. I find it unlikely that in that time, no one noticed anything.”

“We all did notice,” Ratchet said heavily. “We noticed, and we just called him a very smart cyberhound.”

“Y’know,” Jazz said slowly, “It’s interesting. Mirage doesn’t keep him close, doesn’t even try to. He’s asked plenty of bots to look after Scout, me included. Scout’s never tried to communicate to us that something’s wrong, as far as I could ever tell. And he’s always been excited whenever Mirage finally gets back. Whatever’s happening here, it ain’t as simple as a mech trapped against his will.”

“No, it most certainly is not.” Optimus settled with elbows braced against the table. “I intend to hear both sides of this story before making a decision. Jazz, if I may?”

Jazz’s visor flickered for a moment, clearly surprised to hear Optimus asking his permission to visit the area he’d staked out as a headquarters for Ops. Optimus read in it a mech who was not used to being trusted by his commander. No doubt he’d had to fight for every inch of privacy his agents were afforded in the past. But Jazz was nothing if not adaptable. Within moments, the look was gone, and he bounced to his pedes. “Sure thing, boss-bot. I’ll let him know we’re on the way.”

Ops custody, as it turned out, meant locked into a cell in one of the deepest corners of the compound. Jazz explained as he led his Prime through the twisting corridors. “Woulda just ordered him to his office and put him under surveillance, but he insisted. No cuffs or stasis lock, he could get out if he was motivated to, but he wanted the cell. This whole thing’s got him twisted up.”

Jazz stopped in front of a door and entered a combination, then stepped aside as the door slid aside with the screech of metal on metal. The room inside was dark, grimy, and cramped- clearly a solitary cell, and Optimus worried over the state of mind that would lead to one of his soldiers requesting to be confined in such a place.

“I’ll leave the door open,” Jazz murmured to him, before stepping back. Optimus had no doubt that he would only be standing barely out of sight, and certainly not out of earshot, but he appreciated the illusion of privacy afforded by the distance.

Mirage looked up at him when he entered the cell, then returned his gaze to his lap and his entwined servos. “Sir,” he said quietly.

Optimus lingered in the doorway, taking the moment to observe one of his soldiers he had all too rarely interacted with. He had been informed when they found a survivor of the attack on the towers, of course, had briefly seen him in the medbay where Ratchet had told him they’d been lucky Mirage hadn’t emptied out before they found him, then Bumblebee, who told him they’d been lucky to find him at all.

He’d met the mech again briefly when he became an Autobot, but since then, he’d had little time to observe the mech, and the few occasions he could remember seeing him, he’d always had his hound at his side. From the gossip that had filtered up the chain of command to him, the two had been considered a pair from the start.

“Mirage,” Optimus said, settling his plating about his frame. Even standing in the doorway, he towered over Mirage, but there was no place for him to sit, even if he thought Mirage would want him to share the berth in the first place. “I am sure you understand the gravity of the situation we are faced with, and your cooperation is appreciated.”

He paused, but Mirage only nodded, his optics still downcast. After a moment of heavy silence, Optimus continued. “We have a great deal to discuss. If you could start from the beginning, please, when Scout first came into your possession.”

Mirage flinched, but nodded. “When I was fifteen vorns old…”

In bits and pieces, the story came out. Mirage sat stiff and poised, with his helm down. Never once did he twitch or stutter. If it weren’t for the cell they were in, Optimus might have been convinced that this story was nothing for Mirage to tell, but armed with that knowledge, it was easy to pick out the tension in his frame, and the shame that layered his voice, as smooth as it seemed at first.

Throughout the retelling, Optimus stood still and quiet, saving his questions for after. The way Mirage told things, it sounded much like what he had initially suspected- Mirage had known nothing about his pet’s true nature, and had been told nothing that would make him suspect.

“This Trahere you mentioned, who sold Scout to you. He did this often?” Optimus asked.

“Yes,” Mirage said softly. “Hunting was a popular sport among the Towers, and a well-bred cyberhound was a valued accessory. Trahere was well-known for breeding the best around.” He didn’t pause, but listening carefully Optimus could hear the horror creeping into the mech’s aloof tone. “He gave away few of his hounds, but over the vorns a good number were passed into the ownership of the Towers mechs.”

“And there was never any stir around their abilities?” Optimus asked, frowning.

At this, Mirage finally looked up. “You must understand, Prime, that Trahere was considered rather eccentric, and furthermore was allowed it, because of his successes. He did not allow for breeding of any of his animals without his direct supervision and input, and furthermore, he insisted on providing care for any injured animals himself. He was accomplished as a veterinary mechanic, so it was often done eagerly.”

 It was a thought that had Optimus still discomfited, but he’d learned enough about the lifestyles of the rich to know that Mirage wasn’t lying about their penchant for wanting only the best.

“In the time… before the war, there was only a single instance that required Scout to be taken back into Trahere’s care for any amount of time,” Mirage said, staring straight ahead.

“And now?” Optimus asked. “I understand this was the first time he was injured so severely.”

“I have done my best to prevent it from being needed, sir,” Mirage answered quietly. “Trahere’s frame was one of those I was called upon to identify.”

“There were no others who could do those repairs?”

“None who I knew of, or could find.”

Optimus nodded silently. “I see. Thank you, Mirage.” This time, the silent nod he received in response was expected, and he continued on. “That is all for the moment. Should anything further arise, you will be informed. You are free to return to your quarters.”

“Yes, sir.”

Optimus lingered, but when it became clear that Mirage was not about to move, he retreated from the cell, processor and spark heavy.

Jazz slipped up alongside him as he stepped out of the cell block. “Well?” he asked his third-in-command, certain that the mech had been listening in.

Jazz didn’t even pretend otherwise. “Facts-wise, the story checks out. We dug into that before ever accepting him to Spec-Ops,” the smaller mech said. “All the dirt I’ve got on Trahere lines up the way Mirage tells it, too. There’s less of it than I’d like. A lot of things got destroyed with the Towers,” he grimaced.

Optimus said nothing, merely waited, and sure enough Jazz continued.

“As for Mirage… Scout was something special to him, sir. I’m sure you’ve heard bits and pieces. Mirage looked after him almost better than he did himself,” Jazz said, and shrugged. “Far as I can tell, Scout was one of the few good memories Mirage had from the Towers.”

“Then you are convinced he knew nothing of this,” Optimus said, half a question.

Jazz’s gaze was sharp enough to cut. “I know my mechs,” he said.

Optimus didn’t push. He’d made progress with Jazz today, and he was loath to ruin that by questioning the evaluation of a mech whose judgment he was quickly coming to trust.

“Let me know if he does decide to leave that cell,” he asked instead. “In the meantime, we are both needed in the medbay.”


	2. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Physical injuries are easy enough to repair, but how do you treat someone who's been a pet for vorns? Ratchet doesn't like any of this, not one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update! The first three sections I'll be posting happen in sequence, so there's one more after this one. After that it may take some more time to have anything that's presentable. 
> 
> Enjoy Ratchet's grumping, because he sure isn't.

Prime was wearing that face of his again. It should have been impossible to tell with that battlemask of his, but even in Optimus’s relatively short tenure as Prime, Ratchet had come to know him well, more than well enough to read the set of his shoulders and the weight of his step. Right now, it was obvious that Prime was hiding his concern. At his side, even Jazz seemed uncharacteristically subdued.

“How is he?” was the first question out of Optimus’s vocalizer.

Ratchet gestured the two of them to follow as he briskly wove his way through the ICU. “Physically, he’s fine, apart from the medical stasis,” he reported. “That’s being lifted as we speak, and he should be coming out of it on his own soon enough.”

“An’ otherwise?” Jazz piped in, mouth set to a firm line under the bright stripe of his visor. “What’s his processor lookin’ like?”

“I was getting to that,” Ratchet snapped. Jazz didn’t look put off, but Ratchet huffed a moment later. There he was letting his temper get the best of him again. “As I’ve said before, he has the same processing capacity as any other mech. However, I’ve seen no evidence of specialized knowledge downloads. There were some basic frame controls, a rudimentary chronometer, and a glossary of commands. Altogether, hardly more than five gigabytes of information. It’s not the only information in there, but the rest of it is in utter disarray. None of my staff could find a proper file sorting system to any of it. It’s impossible to tell even how much vocabulary he’s picked up.

I’ve removed the blockers that were preventing him from accessing his other systems, but he might not be able to call up the pathways to access them anymore. We’ll see when he wakes, Prime.”

Ratchet huffed and crossed his arms over his windshield. “To be frank, I’m not expecting this to go well. Waking up to an entirely new frame is stressful enough for mechs who can comprehend it and are expecting it. I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t get much of anything out of him this first time around. We might as well be dealing with a traumatized newspark.”

“Understood, Ratchet,” Optimus said with a nod. “Lift the stasis.”

Ratchet nodded and moved to the berth, where the medical monitors displayed countless graphs of processor scans and activity. Ratchet looked them over one final time as he prepared to lift the suppressants. The displays all showed the usual signs of a mech in medical stasis, but Ratchet couldn’t help but worry as he deactivated the medical program and detached several of the sticky pads that kept the processor’s electromagnetic pulses in recharge mode.

It took nearly a minute before the signs of medical stasis faded into the wavelengths of a mech in natural recharge, but it was quickly followed by the key markers of a return to consciousness. “Be ready,” Ratchet warned the other two, dividing his attention between the monitors and the mech on the berth next to him. “He’s coming awake.”

The sound of a voice next to him must have made the mech more alert, because his slow rise to consciousness began to speed up. Ratchet could hear the hum of his systems kicking on and the accompanying spike in processing on the monitors.

Ratchet’s attention snapped over to the mech at the sound of a quiet whine. Almost immediately, his comm pinged with a message from Jazz.

_“He does that when he’s hurtin’, doc,”_ Jazz said, and for once he wasn’t masking his concern, not even to Ratchet. _“Take a step back.”_

_“I was under the impression he wasn’t aggressive,”_ Ratchet said, even as he did as told.

_“Not usually,”_ Jazz said ominously. Ratchet took the hint and moved back further. Really, there was nothing the medical monitors could show on the screen that they couldn’t feed into Ratchet’s own diagnostics, and by now he could read the signs in the mech’s frame just as easily.

And just in time, because the mech’s optics flickered online only moments later.

The confusion began almost immediately. From his vantage point, Ratchet could see the way his eyes latched onto the ceiling, and the open confusion that followed. His optics flickered back and forth, and he shifted, not to sit up, but to roll over—the way he would have to in order to get up in his mechanimal form, Ratchet realized, and cursed himself for not thinking of it earlier even as he leaned forward to prevent the mech from falling off the berth.

The sudden movement made the mech flinch to the side, and although it brought him away from the edge, his helm whipped around to stare at Ratchet with wide optics. A strange sound emanated from his mouth, and it took Ratchet a moment to realize that it had been another whine, as the mech made little aborted movements, as though attempting to get off of his back, but freezing every time a part moved the way he wasn’t used to.

“Scout,” Ratchet said. He wanted to wince at using that name, but it had the intended effect. Scout’s eyes snapped toward him, wide and frightened.

“I need you to listen carefully,” Ratchet said, enunciating carefully as the optics fixated on him. “You were heavily injured in the last battle, and we’ve had to do a lot of repairs—“ Ratchet was cut off by the mech’s growing whine, and he began to look around the room increasingly frantically. Even without the medical feed, Ratchet could catch the growing panic, the heat that spiked in the mech’s increasingly stressed systems and the growing fear that was plain to read on his faceplates.

“Stay calm,” Ratchet started to say, then cursed when the mech attempted to scramble back, only to fall to the floor in a clatter of plating. “I said stay calm, damn it!” He cursed, wincing at the sight of the diagnostic cables that had been ripped away from the mech as he fell. The fall might just have been enough to rupture some of the more fragile welds, and adding the unpleasant shock of a diagnostic cable ripped out of new ports would only be another unnecessary pain added to new systems. He took a step forward, only to freeze at the sound of a garbled snarl as the mech pushed further away, until his backplates were pressed up against the far berth.

“Ratchet,” Jazz said, his voice deceptively calm. “Back off.”

Scout’s helm whipped around toward him, and Ratchet turned to see Jazz staring at the former cyberhound with an inscrutable expression.

Scout made as if to scramble backward again when Jazz took a step forward, but Jazz dropped into a crouch at the far end of the berth, making a quiet shushing noise that had the mech’s attention slowly drawing toward him.

“Scout, stay,” Jazz ordered, quiet but firm.

Ratchet sucked in a startled breath of air, and he could hear Optimus doing the same behind him. _“Jazz,”_ Optimus started to comm, but Jazz interrupted him with a burst of static.

_“Don’t push him, Prime,”_ Jazz said, his frame betraying none of the tension in his tone. “ _I know you want to stop treating him as a pet now that you know the truth, but the change’s going to stress him out more than he needs right now. Traumatized newspark, remember? We ease him into this. Changing everything now is just gonna ruin his trust in us.”_

There was a long, heavy pause. _“Do what you think is best,”_ Optimus said finally. _“We will discuss this later.”_

Jazz’s response was a simple acknowledging ping.


	3. First Attempt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz knows there's a fine line between getting the information he wants and breaking a mech, and with Ratchet's newest patient, he's doing everything he can not to cross it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part in this consecutive sequence! Which means the daily updates stop here, unfortunately. 
> 
> Future updates may not follow chronologically from this one, and if so I'll edit the chapter titles to make the relative timeline easier to follow. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this section.

Jazz took a moment to cycle air through his systems as he held the same careful, open pose. He could feel the weight of Ratchet and Prime’s stares on his backstruts, and he was sure it was going to earn him a blistering lecture later on, but he ignored the edge of disapproval behind them in favor of focusing on the mech in front of him.

“Hey, there,” he said quietly, and slowly extended a hand in front of him, fingers loose and open. Scout’s optics twitched from his hand to him, and Jazz just knew that if the mech were still in his beast form, his ears would have been pricked forward. “The world’s been turned upside-down, hasn’t it?” he continued. The upset whining was slowly dying down the longer Jazz talked, so he kept up the soothing whisper, as he slowly began to edge closer. “You woke up to a nasty shock there.”

Scout tracked Jazz’s every movement closer, but although he quivered with tension, he never shied away from it as Jazz edged slowly closer. “There we go,” Jazz said, as Scout ducked his head to butt it against Jazz’s outstretched hand. From a mech, the gesture made him want to purge, but Jazz held himself steady. It was a sign of reassurance to Scout, no matter what it looked like now, and he desperately needed that reassurance. “Just hold still now,” Jazz said carefully again, and allowed the cable at his wrist to plug into the diagnostic port at the base of Scout’s neck.

Immediately he was met by the rudimentary firewalls Jazz was sure Ratchet had installed, but they fell the moment Jazz pinged for access. Sickly, he wondered if the mech’s inner firewalls would fall that easily if he requested access to them. Immediately he could feel Scout’s attention on him, a heavy presence in his processors in addition to the stare Scout was giving him now.

If he hadn’t already been convinced of Scout’s sentience and intelligence, he surely would have been now. The mech regarded him with an uncanny focus and clarity of thought, and despite the fear Jazz could feel unintentionally transmitted to him through the link, at the situation and the new and unusual contact, there was a deep spark of curiosity and _intelligence._

Ratchet was right about the immature state of the mech’s archiving system, but there was a certain sense to it, Jazz found, even as he brushed through the information trees as sparingly as possible. He caught lists of words, even grammar, as he shuffled through information paths, even though none of it was labeled as such.

_::You-people talk,::_ Scout sent him across their link. Jazz blinked in surprise, then broke out into a smile. Primus, he hadn’t expected Scout to catch on to the nature of the connection that quickly, and yet here he was, taking advantage of it to communicate already.

_::Us-people talk,::_ Jazz agreed, sending his approval across the connection along with the message, and feeling Scout react with confusion, then surprise, then a flush of pleased happiness. _::More to it,::_ he added, slowly hunting out the connection to the previously-blocked section of Scout’s processor that contained the basic vocabulary and grammar patterns.

Scout “followed” hesitantly, unsure what to do with this entirely new section of his processor that he’d never had before, but after a moment of hesitant prodding, Jazz felt a sudden burst of _understanding_ , and Scout lunged forward, desperately pulling the new files in toward himself with a hunger for knowledge that was more fierce than anything Jazz had ever seen before.

On the outside, the mech slumped as his optics went dim.

“Jazz,“ Ratchet said, ominously, but Jazz shook his head.

“It’s fine, Ratch. I guided him to the new pathways, and he fraggin’ pounced. He’s comparing the archiving methods now…” Jazz burst into a low chuckle at the flash of understanding and eagerness from Scout. “Yep. He likes the new stuff better. He’s slotting the old files into it now. Once he finishes a reboot he’ll be ready to use his words.”

Carefully, Jazz pulled his cable away from the mech’s port, though he didn’t remove his hand from its place on Scout’s head.

“I’m going to need to run a scan later,” Ratchet grumped, but he sounded relieved.

“Good,” Jazz retorted. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Ratchet might have been preparing a response, but they were both completely derailed from the conversation when Scout’s frame twitched, and he finally looked up at Jazz with wide optics.

“Talk,” he said, then frowned, a look of concentration on his faceplates. “Say something… please,” he rephrased, much more hesitantly. His vocalizer had the staticky rasp of a vox that had not been used in far too long, but the words were much more clear and understandable than Jazz would have expected from any newspark.

He couldn’t help but beam. “Soundin’ good, mech!” he said cheerfully. “Just gotta clear the rust outta there.”

Scout beamed back, flush with surprised pleasure. “I understand!” he enthused. “And I can say it back!”

“Sure can, mech,” Jazz said, smiling.

The look of uncomplicated cheer, however, was quickly fading from Scout’s expression. “Why?” he asked, now frowning again. “Why now?”

“Why can you do this when you couldn’t before?” Jazz asked, and Scout made a raspy sound that Jazz took to be assent.

When Jazz hesitated, Ratchet stepped forward. “I believe I can explain that,” he said solemnly. “If I may?” Scout glanced hesitantly between Ratchet and Jazz, and only relaxed when Jazz nodded his encouragement. Ratchet at least pretended not to notice as he beckoned the both of them forward. “Come on, then. I’m not having this discussion on the floor.”

It took several moments before Scout moved, and Jazz was sure he was searching for the protocols responsible for moving a frame that was, to him, entirely unfamiliar. Jazz took a step back to let the mech make his own unsteady way to his feet, though he lingered close enough to act as a balance if he faltered. The mech’s movements were not hesitant in the way Jazz knew a newspark’s to be, but they were hesitant nevertheless as the mech got used to propping himself up on only two feet.

He used the berth as a prop as he moved down it, wincing every so often as a new movement strained one of the patches of welds and protective plating that crisscrossed his torso. Ratchet obligingly took a step back again, giving the mech his personal space even as he watched every movement like a hawk, prepared to step in if anything proved to be too much for his patient.

Eventually the mech came to a halt, leaning back against the berth as a support, sitting still with that quiet, intent air of listening that Jazz had always found so disconcerting in Scout. Ratchet, less familiar with Mirage’s pet than Jazz, hesitated for several moments longer before realizing that Scout was ready despite the lack of a verbal cue.

“… Right,” he said finally, coughing to hide his discomfort. “While we were repairing your injuries after the last battle, we discovered…a device, in your processor. An inhibitor. It was placed along with several others, all designed to prevent you from using your processors to their full extent, or transforming.”

Scout looked down at his frame, and Jazz could read his overwhelmed expression like a book. The poor mech didn’t have the first idea what to do about this. And he wasn’t the only one, Jazz thought sympathetically.

“I’m supposed to look like this?” he asked.

“You’re supposed ta be able to transform into that,” Jazz said, taking over for Ratchet again. “Just like you’re supposed ta be able to talk, and use all of that processor of yours.”

“I…” the mech said weakly, staring down at his frame. “Where’s Mirage?” he asked finally.

Jazz heard Ratchet and Optimus going stiff behind him, and Scout reacted immediately to the frame language, ducking his shoulders with an unhappy whine. Jazz cursed them both for idiots in his helm, even as he kept his easygoing smile and relaxed stance firmly in place. Scout hadn’t understood things word for word with the inhibitor, but he’d known plenty about how to read posture.

“We need to make sure you’re all right first,” Jazz told him. “You got a lot of damage in that fight, and falling the way you did mighta opened up some of those repairs.”

“But why isn’t Mirage here?” the mech asked insistently. “I know he wasn’t hurt, but I don’t smell him in here at all.”

Jazz could hear Ratchet shifting behind him, and he angled his frame subtly to get in the mech’s way. Ratchet meant well, he really did, but Jazz wasn’t going to let him drop Scout back into medical stasis just yet, even if the mech’s systems might get a little strained. Knocking him out for something so simple without giving him an explanation would do plenty to damage the mech’s fledgling sense of self, not to mention his trust in them.

“He’s okay. We’ll make sure he stops by later,” Jazz said, still keeping his tone of voice as soothing as he could manage. “We just need to ask you some things while he’s away, right?”

“All right,” the mech said, but he looked unsettled. Jazz took an image capture to bring down to Mirage in the cells. If that dejected look didn’t drag him out, nothing would.

They were still waiting for the end of those questions, of course, but Jazz thought he knew what the result would be, and it wouldn’t be his agent shoved up before a court martial.

“Right, then,” Jazz said, injecting cheer into his voice. He hoisted himself up to sit on the berth with a little hop, and patted the space next to him in an invitation for Scout to join him. “C’mon, let’s let Ratchet look you over. He’s just about twitching over there.”

Ratchet grumbled at the assessment, but he didn’t exactly protest it, and he gestured Scout up onto the berth.

Scout looked hesitantly between the two of them before he limped over to join Jazz by the berth, and even then, he fidgeted anxiously while trying to figure out how to get onto the berth. Eventually, he leaned his back against it and cautiously lifted himself onto it, clumsily copying Jazz’s own motion.

_“See? Smart,”_ Jazz commed Ratchet, who didn’t respond directly. Instead, he turned his attention on the mech.

“Lean back and let me see those welds,” he said gruffly, and Scout obeyed after a moment of hesitation. Ratchet poked and prodded gently, and despite his usual habit of snapping comments at mechs who made it hard to see what he was doing by shifting, he didn’t lecture Scout for his twitching at all.

“All right,” he said eventually. “Looks like everything is fine, for now. Just don’t go jumping off of any berths any time soon, and you’ll be fine until they heal up.”

Scout just nodded, clearly in silent awe of Ratchet. Ratchet just looked uncomfortable, and he stepped back with a nod to Optimus and Jazz both, staring down at his datapad as though it would hold the answers he needed.

This time, it was Optimus who stepped forward, clearing his throat. He’d been so quiet before, such a lack of presence, that had Jazz not been aware of him he would have been startled. Scout, who was already overwhelmed, flinched and whipped around to stare at the Prime.

Jazz was ready with a comforting gesture and a calm word, but Optimus beat him to it, extending his field in a warm, comforting blanket of reassurance. Scout still looked wary, but he had settled at the contact of a welcoming field.

Optimus seemed to finally have gotten what Jazz meant about the body language, though, because despite the way he towered over them both even while they were seated on the berth, he was smiling and relaxed in a way that seemed to be putting Scout at ease.

“I am Optimus Prime,” he said, settling himself on the berth across from them. “I have a few questions to ask you, and I would like you to answer them as best you are able. If you do not know the answer, then simply tell us as much.”

There was a long pause, where Scout looked between the two of them. For a while, Jazz was beginning to think he wouldn’t answer, until he finally nodded jerkily.

“Okay,” he said.

Optimus vented deeply and nodded in return. “Right,” he said. He was still doing his best to keep calm and project a calming field, but Jazz could tell that he was uncomfortable. “You… have been with Mirage for a very long time, correct?”

Scout’s field was already going warm and happy at the thought. Jazz, sitting next to him, got the full brunt of it, but he was sure that Optimus could feel it as well. “Yeah,” he answered.

“I understand he was not in charge of taking care of you when you were hurt or sick.”

Scout hesitated, and Optimus paused, apparently rethinking the question. Finally, he dropped back to something more simple.

“Did you ever need to be repaired like this?” Optimus asked, gesturing toward the welds criss-crossing Scout’s chassis.

Scout hunched over as if to cover them, only to straighten when Ratchet harrumphed. “What did I say about not straining them?” he interjected.

Scout ducked his head, and when he turned back to Optimus, Jazz could see him sneaking little glances in Ratchet’s direction. “I was hunting and a rock cut my neck cables,” he said. “There was lots of energon, and I couldn’t move.”

Jazz caught Ratchet’s grimace out of the corner of his optic, and he was quietly worried himself. An injury like that was not a light affair. Optimus, however, remained calm and simply nodded.

“You must have been brought to a place like this afterwards.”

Scout looked around, tilting his head forward in a way that reminded Jazz of his beast form. Eventually, he nodded slowly. “That place was smaller than here,” he said.

“Do you remember who fixed you?” Optimus asked, calm but intent. “And was Mirage there when it happened?”

“I…” Scout said, then trailed off, helpless frustration flashing through his field and his expression. Jazz pulsed his own back with support and encouragement, but it did little to settle the mech. “Yes,” Scout said finally. “I don’t know how to say it. He was yellow. He was the only one there. Mirage took me home when I could move again.”

“Did he look like this?” Jazz asked, pulling out a datapad. He called an image from his files of what few they had of Trahere and held it out toward Scout. He looked at it for a little while, but frustration burst through his field again.

“I don’t know!” The mech shouted, startling all of them. His voice trailed off into a whine as he flinched away from them, curling in on himself. “Where’s Mirage?”

“He’s out of the medbay, we told you earlier,” Ratchet said, frowning and beginning to edge forward.

“Where’s Mirage?” Scout repeated, his voice shaking and edged with static. His optics were overbright and scared, and his focus darted between the three of them as he shuffled back on the berth, trying to put distance between him and all of them. “I want him.” The mech was shaking, his limbs seizing as he tried to move, tried and failed to apply old protocols that simply didn’t work on a bipedal form.

Damn. Jazz knew a building panic when he saw one, and he doubted just talking would be able to pull Scout out of it. Stressful questions, on top of a stressful full-frame transformation, and a lot of new data to integrate—it would be a wonder if the mech didn’t crash when he finally hit the tipping point.

Still, hopefully they could at least contain it. “Hey,” Jazz said with a croon. “Just keep venting there, mech. I’ll see what I can do about Mirage, yeah?”

Those bright optics focused on him. Jazz saw Ratchet moving forward, but he didn’t give any sign of it, and moments later Ratchet had plugged himself into the mech’s systems with a single deft movement. Scout began to go stiff, but then slumped, and Ratchet caught him before his optics had finished going dark.

“There we go,” Ratchet said with grim satisfaction. “I knew that was going to happen sooner or later.”

“That was nothing too bad, was it, Ratchet?” Optimus asked from behind them.

Ratchet shook his head as he got Scout laid back on the berth. “I got him into standby before he managed to crash anything,” he said, not yet withdrawing the connection between him and the diagnostic port at the back of the mech’s helm. “And I see all of the blocked software has been integrated properly. No thanks to you, Jazz.”

“Hey, I just pointed him in that direction. I didn’t have anything to do with how it initiated,” Jazz protested. He slipped off of the berth so that Ratchet could arrange the mech on it properly, but he remained close, frowning down at him. “He’s practically imprinted, hasn’t he.”

Optimus nodded solemnly. “It is clear that Mirage has come to mean a great deal to him,” he observed. “No matter what has happened between them.”

“Then what should we do?” Ratchet grumbled from where he was leaning over the mech. “I hate to say it, but he’ll probably only get more afraid if we keep Mirage out.”

“That’s if we can even get Mirage in,” Jazz commented. “He might decide that this is even more reason for him to keep away.”

After his reaction to being reminded of his injuries, Jazz had some suspicions, but any questions would have to wait until Scout was more settled. And that, he was beginning to think, would take until Mirage had finally found the courage to set foot in medbay.

“Indeed,” Optimus said gravely. He got to his feet, and looked down at the two of his officers. “Ratchet, I trust you will continue to look after our newest patient. Jazz, might I ask you to see what you can do to convince Mirage to come to the medbay?”

“Sure thing,” Jazz agreed readily. “And what about you, bossbot?”

“I am going to have a word with someone who may have more insight for us.”


	4. Battlefield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battle, and an unfortunate first for Scout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And an update! This section is earlier in the timeline than the three previous parts, though only by a little. This is the first segment of a two-parter, though it may be a few days before the second half is posted.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: injuries and descriptions of first aid. I didn't get too into describing the gory details, but it's in there, and I've updated the tags accordingly.

Mirage ran headlong, helm down, arms pumping. The terrain was too rough for his alt-mode; the broken ground buckled and tilted randomly under his pedes, sending him stumbling or even sprawling headlong across the pitted metal. Each time he ignored the sting where paint had been scraped off his frame to push himself right back up. Seeker engines shrieked by, far too close, but Mirage couldn’t stop to look.

Scout ran at his side almost close enough to trip him, first putting on a burst of speed to dart ahead across the rubble, then slowing until he was once again at Mirage’s side. Every time Mirage fell, Scout was there to nose at him until he shook the gravel out of his palms and started moving again.

Invisibility would do nothing for him now even if he had the energy for the eletro-disruptor. The Seekers’ bombs fell like rain all across the battlefield. They devoured the ground like acid where they fell, and the battlefield was dimmed with smoke heavy with the acrid smell of burning energon.

Scout darted forward again, into the first relatively even patch they’d come across. It was the first place Mirage had considered transforming in, but his frame ached enough already without a transformation straining it further.

A flicker of light off of metal dragged Mirage’s attention up to the sky. There—the flare of jet engines, a blurred glimpse of something falling…

There was no time to chance course, no way to get back. Skidding to a stop nearly made him fall on his already-sparking knee joint, and he collapsed into the rubble that was the closest thing he had to cover. “Scout!” he screamed.

He only had a moment to see Scout turning back toward him before his vision was consumed with fire.

A shockwave blasted across his frame, even behind the rubble that served as his scant cover. His plating was scorched and scoured by the grit that the blast sent flying, drawing stinging lines across already-scraped plating.

For a panicked moment, he couldn’t tell if his optics were working or if the blast had shorted them out. He fumbled across his faceplates with one hand, fighting down terror. If he had Scout to guide him he might have been able to make it out of this Pit of a wasteland, but Scout had been in the open when the bomb hit.

Mirage nearly sobbed in relief as his vision rebooted. Everything was a blur of colors and static, but it was enough for him to push himself upright, staggering as his knee burst with pain.

“Scout,” Mirage called, sweeping his helm back and forth as static came and went through his vision. Spotting Scout’s pewter plating under the rough scrapes and smears of grime that have accumulated on this mission would be nearly impossible with his optics like this, but if it helped even a little…

A yowl answered him, echoing oddly across the broken landscape, but it was there, and he limped his way closer as quickly as he could.

The first thing he saw with his still-blurred optics was the pink gleam of spilled energon, and he choked down a cry of horror as he knelt, rebooting his optics again and again to force his vision to clear.

Scout was sprawled on his side, struggling with jerky motions to get his pedes under him. Some jagged piece of shrapnel had carved his side open from his chest down to his underbelly, revealing sickening glimpses of inner machinery under the steadily leaking energon. Scout’s optics were flickering badly, but his helm was turned toward Mirage.

Mirage swallowed back panic and disgust and reached for the wound. Field patching lines wasn’t difficult, but it required a cool helm and steady hands, and panicking over Scout would not help. His fingers slipped on spilled fluid as he blindly pinched off lines and tied them. Scout trembled whenever Mirage’s fingers slipped in the mess and bumped against the ragged edges of the injury, but he didn’t try to flail away. He couldn’t tell if the lack of reaction was good or bad, but it made it easier for Mirage to get to the lines and close them off before Scout could lose any more energon.

He pinched off three pairs of severed lines and pinched a leak in a fourth. His hands were streaked with energon almost immediately, and his fingers slipped on the lines, but eventually he could find no more bleeding. He thought the leaking had stopped, but it was hard to tell with the still-fresh energon smeared everywhere.

It would have to do until they got to safety. Mirage could only hope that his ties held.

Mirage’s audials were still ringing with the echoes of the explosion, but the rumble and boom of explosions, felt just as much as they were heard, had disappeared, along with the roar of planes overhead.

The battle was over, the Decepticons victorious. Mirage wondered if there would be anything left of the Autobot encampment for him to find.

Scout began to move again when Mirage pulled away, trying once again to struggle upright. The movement jarred the torn metal, and Scout whined as he slumped again. “Shh,” Mirage whispered. His hands were still coated in energon, so instead of petting Scout’s helm to soothe him, he pressed his helm against the cyberhound’s flank until he went limp again.

The contact was enough to settle Scout, though Mirage could still hear the stressed whirring of his systems, and it worried him. If the Autobot forces hadn’t retreated—if any of them still existed—the rest of the battlefield still lay between him and them. Shock and energon loss might extinguish Scout before then, and even if he could still walk, instead of Mirage carrying all of his mass with his damaged knee, there was no guarantee the Autobots would wait for stragglers and survivors, with the Decepticon Seekers still a looming threat.

He could have made better time leaving Scout here, but Mirage refused to entertain the thought.

“Scout,” he said quietly, watching the way his hound’s ears pricked up at the sound of his voice. “ _Domum_.”

The command brought Scout’s helm up. “ _Domum_ ,” Mirage repeated, scratching at Scout’s ears. “We’re going to find the Autobots.”

This time, when Scout tried to right himself, Mirage helped to lift and roll him to his pedes. He wavered where he stood, but he didn’t collapse, even as he favored one of his back legs, refusing to put any weight on it.

“Good boy,” Mirage murmured. “ _Domum_ , let’s go.” He kept a steadying shoulder against Scout’s back as they limped their way across the pitted landscape. It was slow and painful progress, but they made it, even when one or the other of them stumbled against the uneven ground.

He could not have said how far they walked when Scout’s helm lifted abruptly, his head turning toward the low crest of a ridge they were coming up on. Mirage froze, and heard the sound that had caught his hound’s attention a moment later. It was the clatter of pedes against the ground, drawing nearer, making no effort to be quiet.

Before Mirage could do more than look around for a place to hide, a mech appeared on the top of the ridge, a frontliner heavy with dark armor. Mirage tensed for a fight as the mech started to rush toward him, only to recognize a red badge and Autobot signal.

An Autobot, not an enemy.

“Scout, he’s friendly,” he said, feeling Scout bristling where he was pressed against Mirage’s leg. By the time the mech had reached the bottom of the slope, Scout was no longer growling.

“Hey, you all right?” the mech asked. Upon a second look, Mirage realized that the mech wasn’t all that dark, his red plating was just covered in ash and dirt. Even his blue visor was smeared. “Boulder, I’ve got one over here!”

The mech’s ident signal was broadcasting as widely as it could, Mirage realized. It was a common search and rescue tactic, but dangerous if there were Decepticons still around. This mech didn’t seem disturbed by that possibility.

Another mech, this one green, and in a treaded alt-mode, powered up over the ridge and transformed. “Are you all right?” he asked Mirage, scanning over him and Scout next to him. “Are… where’s your squad?”

“I wasn’t with a squad,” Mirage answered. “I haven’t seen anyone else.”

Boulder deflated, clearly disappointed by the news, but the other mech was staring at Mirage with an evaluating look.

“There’s an emergency hospital being set up,” he said. “We can help you to it.”

Mirage shook his helm. “I can make my way there on my own. I came from that direction,” he said, pointing back the way he’d come, “and didn’t find anyone. Just tell me where to go and I’ll make my own way while you keep searching.”

“Are you sure?” Boulder asked, but his companion elbowed him.

“It’s back that way, about half a mile,” the mech said. He was still watching Mirage, but he didn’t say anything as Mirage nodded his thanks and turned away.

“Scout, come,” Mirage ordered, as Scout continued along in step with him.

As he limped away, Mirage could hear the two of them muttering to each other. “Are you sure we should be leaving him on his own, Heatwave?” Boulder asked.

Mirage could feel the weight of Heatwave’s stare, even with the distance between them. “Leave it,” he said to his companion. “He’s an Op. I recognize that cyberhound. Whatever he was doing out there, he’s not about to tell us.”

He’d been trying to survive out there in the midst of that massacre, same as anyone else, but they probably wouldn’t believe that even if he told them so.

It didn’t matter, in the end. He was almost done with his mission. If he could find his contact and handler among the scattered remains of the Autobot forces, his mission would be done.

He only hoped he could find a medic who had the training to help Scout. Tying broken lines worked well for emergencies, but the stalled energon flow could be dangerous if left for too long. He would beg, if he had to. After this long, he wasn’t going to let Scout die so easily.

As if sensing his thoughts, Scout pressed close against his leg, with a quiet, tired whuff of air through his nasal vents.

“I know, Scout,” Mirage murmured, patting his hound gently. “We’re almost there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cameo from some Rescue Bots! Because Rescue bots.


	5. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirage makes it back to the Autobot encampment-- what's left of it-- at last. The problems, of course, don't stop there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second part! More cameos, this time not just rescue bots. This is where the fic dovetails into the scene from the first three chapters. 
> 
> Warnings in this chapter are for more descriptions of injuries and minor medical things.

The encampment was in ruins when they arrived.

The Decepticons had clearly started their bombing runs here, in an attempt to wipe out the Autobots’ reserves and emergency response forces. Destroying their injured and their medics, rather than the forces already fighting—it was a disgusting tactic. The only reason it hadn’t been more devastating was the temporary bases had taken advantage of the terrain and were situated underground more often than not.

There were plenty of Autobots milling around the place, carrying wounded, digging out collapsed structures, or traveling out in search and rescue teams. Everyone he passed was smeared with dirt and soot, and nearly all showed signs of battle. It would be near impossible to find any of the other ops in this mess.

Scout had been drooping for the last leg of the trip, and now he listed heavily to the side, leaning up against Mirage’s leg. Mirage could feel the heat of his stressed systems, radiating out even through his armor. He knelt to give Scout more support and to check on the injury. There was no further bleeding, but Scout was clearly on his last legs, his helm drooping and his optics frighteningly dim.

“Scout,” Mirage murmured, running a hand down his flank. “Just a little further, come on. We need to keep moving.” Scout twitched and lifted his helm, but he remained where he was, jaw hanging open and panting out more heated air.

Heavy footsteps nearby had Mirage jerking his attention upward, shifting where he was crouched in tense anticipation, only to find a mech standing in front of him.

“Need any help?” the mech asked as Mirage looked him over. Autobot symbol, black paint, visor. Not someone Mirage knew, but he didn’t know most of the mechs in this camp. His optics were dim and the edges of his field fuzzy with exhaustion, but he seemed relatively uninjured, probably why he was still out here and apparently helping.

Mirage relaxed from his coiled crouch. “He won’t move,” he explained, nodding to Scout. “And I need to get him to a medic. Would you mind…?”

The mech’s visor shifted toward Scout. “I can carry him,” the mech said. “There’s an evac on the way for the wounded. They can get him some proper care.”

It would be a bit more complicated than that, but it was nothing this mech needed to know. Mirage simply nodded in thanks. “Scout, still,” he ordered, and Scout froze obediently.

Rather than simply scoop up the hound, however, the black mech held out a hand, palm up, for Scout to sniff. He didn’t even flinch when Scout snuck a lick. “Nice to meet you too,” the mech rumbled, grinning. Scout’s tail wagged once as he nosed at the mech’s palm.

The mech was gentle as he scooped Scout up, maneuvering him to avoid putting pressure on his wounds. Mirage was sure it hurt, but Scout remained still and limp in the mech’s hold, as he walked slowly toward one of the remaining buildings. He was moving slowly, to let Mirage make his unsteady way along beside.

Whatever this building had been before, it was filled with the wounded now. They lay in rows through the room, as medics and other volunteers wandered up and down the lines. One of them, a silvery bot roughly Mirage’s size, came up to them and slipped over to Mirage’s side, slipping up under his arm to brace him. “Thank you, Trailbreaker,” she said with a nod to the large mech. “We have a space over by the wall. It’s not far now, and a medic will be here soon,” she said.

Mirage nodded in silent relief and let her guide them over to an out-of-the-way corner of the room. The sounds of the makeshift infirmary were slightly more muffled here, and Mirage relaxed as he slumped against the wall. Trailbreaker set Scout down next to him, close enough that Mirage could reach out and lay a hand on his ruff, and Mirage nodded in quiet thanks.  

“I’ll send a medic over,” the black mech rumbled, then departed, leaving Mirage alone with the silver femme.

“Well,” she said, kneeling down next to him. “You’ve been on quite the trek, haven’t you? One would expect a bit more hubbub, returning from the far side of the battlefield.”

Mirage remained silent, watching her warily, but a ping to his encrypted comm had him relaxing marginally. His Ops contact, then.

“Slipchain, at your service,” she continued, as though the ping hadn’t happened. “Let me take a look at that leg of yours.” She hardly paused long enough for Mirage to give permission. He tensed as she reached out, but the anticipated pain didn’t manifest. Instead, her touch was light enough that it barely registered to his haptic sensors.

He ignored the uncomfortable feeling, and slipped his datastick to Slipchain. She accepted it delicately, and slipped it away. Out of subspace, the devices were incredibly delicate, and prone to breaking, precisely why at-risk Autobot agents preferred to use them. This wasn’t the first time Mirage had been tasked with retrieving the fragile things from one of their agents, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“Good work,” Slipchain said, drawing away. There was no sign of the datastick, and she gave no other indication that she’d taken it from him. Scout’s ears perked up at the phrase, and the femme, so stoic and businesslike until now, cracked a smile. “Yes, you as well,” she said, reaching out to ruffle his ears.

It was over as quickly as it started, as Slipchain rose. “A medic will be with you shortly,” she said, and disappeared into the echoing space of the building.

Just as Slipchain promised, it wasn’t long before a medic appeared next to him. His EM field was frayed at the edges, but holding together well enough, and he was broadcasting the credentials of a junior field-medic.

“What happened?” the medic asked, all business as he knelt down, attention turning to Scout. Scout lifted his head again and whined at the sight of the medic.

“My hound was hit by shrapnel,” Mirage said. His hands clenched against his seams as the mech paused, but he managed to keep his voice even. “I tied off some of the lines, but they can’t stay like that forever.”

The medic’s optics went wide. “A mechanimal?” he echoed, looking back down at Scout. His hands hovered in the air between them. “I can’t treat that. We still have more injured coming in, and we’re limited on supplies as it is.”

Mirage’s hands squeezed together until the raw plating of his palms began to sting. “Then may I at least call upon you to make sure that his lines have been closed properly?” he said. There was a chill in his voice he didn’t bother to hide. He had expected that Scout’s injuries would not be a priority, but to be so blatantly cast off, without apology, gave him an instant dislike for this medic.

The medic frowned, but turned toward Scout. “Keep him still,” the medic snapped.

“Scout, still,” Mirage ordered. Scout could hear the snap in his voice, and he reacted to it, hardly even venting as the medic traced the wound with exaggerated caution. The medic was thorough in his examination, Mirage could at least say that for him, but he kept breaking away from it to look at Scout for any sign of aggression. His own exhaustion was the only thing that kept Mirage from snapping at the mech. Did he really think that Mirage would let his own hound do something so crass as snap at a medic?

Eventually, the medic pulled away. “The lines should hold for now. They probably won’t stress his systems too much, but you’ll want to get him to someone who knows mechanimal repairs before long. Until then, get a patch to put over the wound.”

“Thank you,” Mirage managed, as the medic pulled back away from Scout. He refused to let himself shake with dread. He would have to find some way to bribe a medic into doing the repairs, it seemed. In all his time in the Autobots, he hadn’t been able to find anyone with the expertise needed to repair a Towers’ pet. With the Towers gone and their institutions with them, Mirage’s funds were all but nonexistent, but using blackmail on a medic was unconscionable.

He would figure something out. He had to.

The medic paused in the midst of drawing away. “Is there anything you need?” he asked.

“No,” Mirage said in a fit of pique. His knee was still damaged, but it could hold until they were called away, or another medic came by. It was petty, but Mirage did not want this mech to do his repairs.

The medic simply nodded and departed, leaving Mirage to himself.

Scout began to shift then, paws scrabbling against the floor as he tried to twist his helm around to look at Mirage. Mirage laid a hand along his neck to calm him, then carefully shifted to the side so that his thigh was pressed against the ridges of Scout’s backplates. Scout rewarded him with the quiet whuff of air leaving his vents, and the slightest thump of his tail against the floor before he went still again.

“Poor Scout,” Mirage murmured, stroking him now from his helm down to the crests of his ears, over and over. “I know it hurts.”

Scout shoved his nose against Mirage’s hand, licking the tips of his fingers before butting his helm back into Mirage’s hand, exposing the delicate mechanisms of his audial cups. This time, Mirage breathed the barest hint of a laugh as he continued to obey the obvious demands for petting.

The bunker wasn’t completely silent, as time dragged on, but it was ominously hushed, the only sound punctuating it the groans of injured mechs accompanied by the footsteps and murmurs of medics making their rounds. Occasionally, the background noise would be interrupted by searchers bringing in new patients. Mirage could recognize Slipchain and Trailbreaker among them. Still, those interruptions were troublingly scarce considering the number of troops the Autobots had been fielding. Maybe they were separating the injured somehow, but Mirage doubted it. From what he’d seen when coming in, this was one of the most intact buildings left at the site.

Time dragged on that way for a while, long enough that Mirage’s tired frame and processor conspired to send him into recharge. In an unfamiliar space, filled with such irregular background noise, true recharge was impossible. Instead, he kept slipping into fitful dozing, then jerking awake again when something disturbed him.

It was the sound of engines that fully woke him, in the end. He startled when the sound passed by overhead, staring up toward the ceiling. Were the Decepticons making another pass?

No one else seemed to be bothered by the sounds, though. Some even looked relieved. Before Mirage could begin to think of why, he heard pedesteps coming toward him. When he looked up, he saw the large black mech from before approaching him.

“What is going on?” Mirage asked.

“We’re getting an evac of the wounded, and more search teams coming in with medics,” Trailbreaker said. “That’s the ship coming in now.”

“Oh.” Mirage didn’t think it had been long enough for that, but then again, he’d also lost track of time. He jerked again as he felt Scout’s weight shift against his leg, and turned to find that his hound had propped his head up, ears pricked and alert.

The sound of the engines changed as the shuttles came in for a landing, and then there was a distant commotion. Eventually, medics and first responders spilled into the shelter, briefly intercepted by the medics already here. After some conferencing, the triaging began.

The sight took Mirage aback. He’d been out in the field for a while, but the strangest things always reminded him that he was back. The little jolt as he realized that these injuries wouldn’t compromise his mission, because his mission was _over,_ was almost enough to send him into a shivering breakdown. He resisted the urge. He was still injured, and he needed to see to Scout’s care before he could relax.

The medics were busy with carrying the unconscious mechs out to the transport, and the mechs that could still move themselves were shuffling their way out of the building. “All walking wounded, please come to shuttle three!” someone shouted. Mirage started to lever himself up, wincing at the way his knee joint creaked. Before he was even fully on his feet, Scout was attempting to scramble up to join them.

Mirage nearly dropped himself when Scout’s legs gave out under him. Scout let out a pained yelp as his chassis met the floor, and Mirage struggled to turn him, spark in his mouth, to check for burst lines. There was no energon, but Scout was still whining in pain, and lying limp against the floor.

Before Mirage could do more than cast one helpless look around—Scout was nearly impossible for him to carry normally, considering their relative messes—Trailbreaker stooped down next to him.

“I’ll get him,” the big mech said, already lifting Scout’s limp frame. Other than a long whine, Scout remained quiescent in the mech’s arms.

“Wait, wait,” one of the new medics said, charging up toward the two of them. “What’s wrong with him?”

“ _He_ is a cyberhound,” Mirage said, but the medic’s expression didn’t change.

“And what is wrong?” he repeated.

Taken aback, Mirage had to struggle for a moment to describe it. “He was caught by shrapnel,” he said finally. “I sealed the lines, but…”

The medic frowned. “That could cause a lot of strain on his systems,” the medic observed. “I’ll take a look before we leave. If he’s collapsing like that, he may need immediate care.”

Mirage’s spark jumped. “Can you repair him?” he asked.

“My name is Fixit. I have minimal experience with mechanimal systems,” the medic answered. “I can’t repair the cosmetic damage but if something is wrong I should be able to catch it. At the very least I can splice the major lines back together before you leave. Set him down,” the medic ordered Trailbreaker, who nodded and lowered Scout back to the ground, on his side, then stepped back.

“Can you keep him steady?” Fixit asked as he knelt, examining the ragged edges of Scout’s plating. “This will go much more smoothly if he isn’t fighting me.”

It was almost exactly what the medic earlier had told him, but Mirage just nodded in silent acquiescence. Kneeling again nearly made his leg go out, but he leaned over Scout’s frame, pressing one arm across his chest and petting the other across his helm, keeping him from lifting it to look at the medic. His optics, Mirage realized, were glazed, and his plating heated with stress. He had to fight to keep the worry out of his voice. “Still, Scout,” he said quietly. “He’s going to fix you. It will be okay, shhh…”

Scout was shivering, but he didn’t try to twist away. Mirage glanced down Scout’s frame, to see Fixit’s hands moving deftly inside the open wound. There was a frown growing on the medic’s blue faceplates, and Mirage’s tanks twisted in dread. “Is something wrong?”

“There’s some sort of obstruction in here,” Fixit said, frowning as he leaned down. “It’s the wrong shape to be shrapnel… I need to get a better look.”

He withdrew his hands, and adjusted, tilting his helm to the side and upping the brightness of his optics to get a better look at Scout’s internals. Mirage tried not to squirm as he kept gently petting Scout’s helm, as the hound twitched under his touch.

Then Fixit jerked back, his jaw dropping.

“What is it?” Mirage asked, going tense.

The medic shook his helm, looking down at Scout. “That’s… that’s a transformation cog!”


	6. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the shadow of the most devastating Decepticon terrorist attack to date, Bumblebee makes a discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another installment in this fic! Consider this a one-parter for now, though I may eventually write the aftermath of this scene.

The fire crews and the paramedics were still swarming the remains of the Towers, desperately canvassing the wreckage for frames, living or dead. Bumblebee wanted them to find some survivors just as much, but as time passed he couldn’t help but be sickly glad that he wasn’t searching. By now it was most likely that the only frames they were retrieving from the rubble were crushed and gray.

Instead, he was on the outskirts, watching for… well, anything. Decepticons had already made an attack on the initial rescue crews, civilians who had reacted to the destruction of the Iacon Towers by rushing in headlong, intending only to save lives. They’d lost more than a few to that first horrible attack, and all of Autobot Command was determined to keep it from happening again.

But that meant that the Autobot response team was stretched thin—thin enough that Jazz was volunteering rookie agents like Bumblebee out on the streets, alone, acting like a frontliner.

Not that he couldn’t _handle_ it. No Decepticons were about to get the drop on him! He just… had to be careful, or Jazz would put him on grunt work for the rest of the war for getting himself hurt. He was a better agent than that, and he wasn’t about to give up his chance to prove it.

He felt like a ghost as he crept through the streets of High Iacon, ducking from corner to corner, silencing his vents as he drifted through the streets still strewn with debris. He was already coated in dust and smoke, completely covering his usual bright yellow with an ashy grey. He didn’t bother trying to brush it away. In the empty streets, the grime served as a good camouflage.

He might not have needed it, but the caution was appropriate, considering the ruthlessness with which the Decepticons had struck. The streets seemed empty now, if thrown into disarray by the debris of the attack and damage from fleeing mecha and looters, but that could always change, which meant that Bumblebee needed to keep on his guard.

All the caution in the world couldn’t prevent Bumblebee from jumping out of his plating when something scuffed in a nearby alley. He froze with one hand at his side, ready to pull out his blaster if anyone came out of that alley.

Nothing emerged. There was another scuffing sound, then what sounded suspiciously like… a whimper?

Curiosity began to edge out caution, and Bumblebee edged forward, using every trick he knew to keep his movements silent, as he came up to the corner of the building and used it as a shield to peek around, ready for anything.

Or so he thought, but—he wasn’t ready for this. Bumblebee felt his optics go wide as he saw the shape rooting around through the garbage stacked against the wall of the alley. He’d never seen a cyberhound in person before. It was a lot more intimidating than he’d expected. Definitely bigger; it would probably come up to his chest, maybe to his shoulder, if he stepped any closer. Bumblebee wouldn’t be surprised if it outweighed most minibots.

It had to be a cyberhound, too, not some sort of beastformer. The rudimentary EM field Bumblebee could feel coming off of it didn’t even broadcast emotions, just a little staticky fuzz that prickled at the edges of his senses. Much more simple than any civilian would give out, but it would draw more attention than a Decepticon would want to attract while in enemy territory. Much more likely that a Decepticon would have their field completely shut down, the way Bumblebee did right now. Besides, he didn’t see any Decepticon badges on it.

The cyberhound was even more scuffed and dust-covered than Bumblebee, but he caught glimpses of an ornate collar around the thing’s neck. It had to be some lost Towers pet, though Bee had to wonder how it had ended up out here, blocks away from the destroyed buildings. Had it fled when the buildings were destroyed?

Bumblebee didn’t have time to wonder more, as the cyberhound lifted its helm, then yipped and started bounding out of the alley and straight toward him.

He pulled out his blaster as the technimal bounded closer, wary of the creature. It _looked_ like a docile Towers pet, but a wrong move from that thing could do him a lot of damage, and for all Bumblebee knew it was trained to react to strangers with hostility.

He stepped away from the wall to get more space to move, and raised his blaster to a cautious height, ready to fire off a warning shot or bring the weapon to bear if he needed to.

But rather than continue to rush toward him, the animal checked its bounding leap and yelped in a pitch that even Bumblebee, unfamiliar with cyberhounds as he was, could recognize as alarm. The creature backed away, whining and watching Bumblebee with a lowered head.

“Go on, get away from here,” Bumblebee said, stepping to the side so the entrance to the alley was a straight walk from where the beast stood. He didn’t want to be between a panicked beast and its escape route.

Except instead of dashing past him, the creature backed further into the alley, whining and watching the gun still in his hand. It was only when the creature had backed himself up against the dumpsters that lined the alley that it started growling, but even Bumblebee could tell that the sounds were weak.

Bumblebee watched, frozen and unmoving, but the cyberhound still refused to go past him, even though he could see the way its optics darted between him and the exit. In fact, though Bumblebee didn’t know much about cyberhounds, he would say that it was guarding something.

A second passed. Two. Then, watching it carefully, Bumblebee put his gun away.

Instantly, the whining stopped, and the cowering, though the creature didn’t try to move toward him again.

“Who even taught you to be afraid of guns?” Bumblebee muttered, scanning the alleyway. Nothing here, except for the cyberhound, still backed against the dumpsters…

No. There, right by the hound’s back pede. A flash of pink.

Energon.

When Bumblebee stepped forward, the creature didn’t start growling again. Bee winced anyway. The hound wasn’t bleeding, that much he could tell from looking at it, and it seemed like it was guarding something. Bumblebee pinged the Ops line.

Immediately, Jazz was with him. “ _Status?”_

 _“Uncertain,”_ Bumblebee responded. “ _Got some energon and a guard dog. I’ll let you know if I’ll need a medic or backup.”_

 _“Sending both,”_ Jazz told him, and cut the line before he could do anything. Bumblebee tried not to huff. Jazz was being overprotective, especially since he didn’t even know if there was more energon.

But, since the team was coming anyway, he needed to do his best to find out. And that meant getting past the cyberhound to whatever it was guarding.

Slowly, hands held out in front of him, Bumblebee started to edge closer. “Don’t try to bite me,” he muttered, watching the animal’s agitation grow. “I’m not trying to hurt you…”

The hound kept staring at him, but slowly the growls died into whimpers. It watched Bumblebee as he approached. He stopped about an arm’s length away. Slowly it started edging closer to him, body tucked low in a way that even Bumblebee could tell was submission.

Cyberhounds, Bumblebee decided, were fragging weird. He gave it a few moments, just in case it decided it didn’t like being quiet and friendly. The thing just stayed in place, audial panels twitching, optics fixed on him.

“Jazz is going to be so mad if I get myself bitten,” Bumblebee mumbled to himself, but he started edging forward, slowly. He kept his hands in the air and his optics peeled for any sign of movement from the hound. Still, it didn’t move, not even when he finally reached the dumpster. There was a gap between it and the wall, large enough for a minibot, or someone his size, but a tight fit for something the cyberhound’s size.

There was more energon here, drips and drabs that stained the ground in spatters. There was a pool of it in the farthest corner—enough to be concerning, but not alarming. That was the good news. It was still fresh, too—the surface had only barely begun to congeal, and there was still the faintest hint of an energized glow. He ducked into the shadow of the dumpster, eying the tracks of drips. Here, in the small space, the energon was smeared, as though the source had moved around in here. Some of it was even fresh, not at all gummy, even still glowing in the dim light.

But there was no one there.

Bumblebee frowned. Had he been wrong about the cyberhound? Had it only been backed into a corner, afraid, and not guarding anything at all? Or had whoever, whatever, it had been guarding left, only ordering it to stay?

He glanced over his shoulder toward the thing, and found it still pressed flat to the ground, though it had lifted its helm and its optics and audial panels were twisted toward him. When it saw him looking, it quietly began to whine.

“Shh,” Bumblebee muttered. “I need to figure out…”

He looked back toward the energon puddle, ignoring the hound again as the whining died away. It wasn’t much to go on, but the energon was his only clue, and he had to figure out _something_ before Jazz’s backup team arrived and left him embarrassed by not having found anything.

He stepped forward, to examine the energon, and promptly tripped and went down hard.

He didn’t shout in alarm. His training was good for that much, even if it meant he bit his glossa hard on the way down, instead. He got his arms up in front of him, braced to stop his fall, but that was all he could manage before he hit with a clatter.

There was scuffling behind him, an alarmed bark, and Bee started to push himself upright with a hiss. The last thing he needed was to deal with an agitated cyberhound on top of everything else.

His hand didn’t even reach the ground before it hit… something. Bumblebee froze, alarm coursing through his circuits. It didn’t feel like a force field, or something. It felt like metal. But according to his optics, there was nothing there.

He reset his optics. Still nothing. Whatever he was touching, he could still look right through it and see straight to the floor. He shifted his hand, feeling out whatever his hand had impacted with. It was definitely metal, he could feel that much. Not plain and boxy like equipment. He traced along, found the edge of a flat piece, stuck his fingers into what felt like mechanisms.

Some sort of joint, he realized. And, as he fumbled around even more, felt the edges of plating, then a tire, it had to be some sort of limb.

This was a ‘former. Couldn’t be a detached limb, there wasn’t enough energon puddled for that, and what kind of power source could just keep a limb invisible by itself? Not cloaked, but actually _invisible._ Bumblebee had never heard of anything like it.

Jazz needed to know.

He was nervous when he pinged the Ops line this time. This was starting to feel more and more like a trap, and he kept glancing back toward the cyberhound, as if it would transform, or start to attack him. He couldn’t take his hands off the limb, either. Who knew if the invisible ‘former was really unconscious?

The line pinged through, and Bumblebee nearly collapsed in relief. _“I’ve got a situation,”_ he said, the moment it went through.

 _“Status?”_ Jazz asked immediately. There was an edge to his voice now, as he answered.

_“Found one. Apparently offline. Don’t know faction colors, and I’m dealing with a mod I’ve never seen before.”_

_“Backup’s on its way,”_ Jazz responded. _“What’s the mod? And how bad off are they?”_

 _“Some sort of invisibility mod,”_ Bee told him. He kept feeling out the shape of the mech’s frame, winced as he found a jagged gash in what felt like the mech’s thigh. _“It’s not a hologram, not chameleon paint. I didn’t even see him until I tripped over him.”_

 _“You sure they’re out?”_ Jazz asked, sharply.

_“Just practically jammed my fingers into a sensor, I’m pretty sure. Not so much as a twitch. Depending how big they are, they might’ve gone into shutdown. There’s plenty of bleedout here. But whatever this mod is, it’s still active.”_

_“See if you can detach it,”_ Jazz instructed. _“If this is a ‘Con mod, it’s a new one. Backup’s almost to you, just stay alert.”_

 _“Will do, sir.”_ Bumblebee didn’t disconnect the call, just set it to passive. Jazz would be monitoring it, he was sure, and if something went wrong, Bumblebee wanted the quick line to him. Or, if it got cut off, he wanted Jazz to know that immediately.

He needed to know how bad this ‘former’s injuries were. As he felt around it, he could feel energon in the wound, and his fingers came away pink. As he watched, a droplet welled up, and slid down the invisible air. If he squinted, he thought he could see the outline of mechanisms in the place the gash should be, but here behind the dumpster, it was hard to tell.

He heard another whine and some scuffling behind him, and glanced over his shoulder to see the cyberhound fidgeting at the slim gap between dumpster and wall.

“Smelled the energon?” he guessed. “Don’t worry, I’m going to fix it. I hope. Just have to get them out of here…”

Finding handholds on the invisible ‘former wasn’t easy, but he managed to find both legs and get a grip. Dragging them out of that narrow space was even harder. Bumblebee was a hardy minibot, but they were heavy, and every time their armor caught on something, he had to feel along their frame until he could touch the part that had snagged, then struggle to maneuver them around the obstacle. All the while, he could hear the cyberhound in the background, whining and pacing. The only good thing was that it didn’t crowd the little gap that Bumblebee was trying to pull the ‘former through.

He had to feel up the length of their frame again, when he’d finally gotten them out, and he grimaced as he surveyed the scene. The process of dragging them had left smears of energon along the ground. At least he could make things out better, now that he had a bit more light. He couldn’t completely see anything, but there were a few patches where he could tell that space was being distorted, a few splashes of energon seeming to hang in midair, a few vague glimpses past torn plating that were almost to fuzzy to see unless he found the right angle to look at them from.

There were a couple big gashes besides the one Bee had found on their thigh, and he hissed a curse at the sight of them. No wonder they were offline and unresponsive, if they’d been bleeding from all of those. He had a sickening moment to wonder if extra energon had leaked under the dumpster, out of his sight—if there had been more blood that he simply hadn’t seen.

“That medic had better get here soon,” he whispered to himself.

The cyberhound was whining again, and edged forward to start sniffing at the blurred outline of the frame, then nosing at it.

“This must be your master, huh?” Bumblebee muttered, as he watched the hound. “They must be from the towers. No ‘con would have a cyberhound that fancy. Or if they did, they wouldn’t bring it to a bombing.”

He watched the hound’s audial panels perk, then tilted his helm. There. The sound of feet, two sets, one slightly heavier than the other, both moving quickly. Bumblebee tensed, ready to pull his blaster out, as he backed cautiously toward the dumpster. Probably the backup from Jazz, but if it wasn’t…

He got a ping from the Ops line, just as the footsteps reached the entrance to the alley, but he didn’t have time to relax. There was a shout, followed by an accompanying growl. Bumblebee popped his head into the open in time to see Ironhide, guns drawn and pointed at the Cyberhound, which was snarling and standing braced over the place Bumblebee knew the ‘former’s body was.

“Stop!” Bee stumbled out of his hiding place, hands held up in front of him.

Ironhide’s gun wavered. “Kid?” Another mech stepped out from behind him, as Ironhide finally lowered the gun. It had to be the medic—Bee remembered the red and white frame from his few times in medibay in Autobot headquarters. Ratchet, maybe.

“It’s friendly. Pretty sure it’s from the towers,” he said. The hound was still tense, but it looked at him with big optics when Bumblebee put a hand on its shoulder. “It doesn’t like guns.”

“Enough about the cyberhound,” the medic said, stepping forward. “Where’s the patient?”

“Here,” Bumblebee said, nudging what he was pretty sure was a pede. “I couldn’t find any cloaking device or anything, and I know they’re injured. At least one gash on their thigh, probably more in other places.”

“Fragging mods,” Ratchet hissed. He dropped to a knee, and began poking and prodding at the invisible form, while Ironhide mumbled something that sounded irritated, and turned his attention and his gun to face the street.

Bumblebee watched silently, hand still on the cyberhound’s shoulder, as Ratchet started methodically searching the invisible frame, frowning occasionally, his hands pausing. Eventually, he made a pleased sound and tugged a cable from his wrist, jacking it into what Bumblebee assumed to be a port on the invisible frame.

A few long, silent moments went by. Then a frame started to fade into view.

Bee couldn’t contain his gasp. The ‘former was dusty and battered, but that didn’t keep them from having the most beautiful frame he’d ever seen. They had paint in royal blue and shining white, and Bumblebee was sure they gleamed under the dust and the dents. Every line on their frame was smooth and sculpted, and Bumblebee could see the trappings of a high-performance racing alt mode.

The cyberhound was trembling all over, Bumblebee could feel it, but it hadn’t moved an inch when the frame had appeared. More proof, in Bumblebee’s mind, that this really was the pet of this particular Towers resident.

Ratchet didn’t seem nearly as impressed. The moment the ‘former’s injuries were visible, he muttered a curse and set to patching the lines. “We’re going to have to get this one to a med station, Ironhide,” he said. “He’s lost too much energon, and that fragging mod drained him even more.”

“He ain’t a Decepticon?” Ironhide asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“If he is, he’s the fanciest terrorist I’ve ever seen,” Ratchet said, his hands still working in a blur. “He’s no threat right now. If the spooks want something with him, they’ll have it out when he’s not in critical condition.”

Bumblebee kept silent, hoping that Ratchet wouldn’t remember that he was one of those ‘spooks.’ He was already sure that Jazz would be paying attention to this mech, even if he wasn’t a Decepticon. An actual invisibility mod—Spec Ops couldn’t pass up an opportunity like that. Jazz would be debriefing him relentlessly the moment Bumblebee stepped into his office.

“There,” Ratchet said, leaning back. His hands were streaked with energon that he impatiently shook away. “That’s all I can do for him here. Ironhide, I’m going to transform, help me load him up.”

“Hnn,” Ironhide grunted, stepping away from the mouth of the alley and stowing his gun as Ratchet transformed. “You’re coming with us, kid,” he said to Bumblebee as he picked up the limp form of the Towers mech. “Jazz’s orders.”

“Yes, sir,” Bumblebee said. He started to step forward , ready to join Ratchet and Ironhide, when the sound of whimpers stopped him. The hound. When he looked back, it was edging forward, wary but scared, its optics darting toward the slim form in Ratchet’s alt as it whined. Bumblebee couldn’t help but feel sympathy for it. It had guarded its master, maybe even saved his life, and now it was watching that master be taken away by strangers. “Uh, Ironhide. What about the cyberhound?”

Ironhide, already pulling his gun out again, grimaced. “What _about_ the cyberhound?” he huffed, then groaned when he saw the look on Bumblebee’s faceplates. “Urgh. Do whatever you want with it, as long as you can keep it under control.”

“Yes, sir!” Bumblebee said, grinning.  He turned toward the cyberhound, holding out a hand toward it. “Guess you’re coming with us.”


End file.
